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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25048117">Heather</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahuwu/pseuds/hannahuwu'>hannahuwu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>ATEEZ (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crushes, M/M, Puppy Love, Yeosang blonde hair gOD, a highschool au nobody asked for</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:28:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25048117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahuwu/pseuds/hannahuwu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's just polyester,"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Choi San &amp; Jung Wooyoung, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Jung Wooyoung &amp; Kang Yeosang, Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heather</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Playlist: Heather by Conan Gray, I Don't Love You by My Chemical Romance</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“Yeosang? You listening?” The said boy whips his head in the direction of the voice calling for his attention.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” he picks up the strawberry milkshake to take another sip. Wooyoung whines as San laughs at how nonchalant Yeosang seems.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“I was just saying how I’m in the lead role for this years play! I just went for the auditions blindly, and…” Wooyoung’s voice automatically mutes itself in Yeosang’s head, too focused on the way the boy has his arm draped over San’s shoulder. Something seems familiar, he thinks.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Then he sees it.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Isn’t that the sweater we bought together?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Huh? Oh, yeah. I gave it to San. Doesn’t it look great on him?” San giggles, pinching Wooyoung’s nose as a response. Something in Yeosang breaks.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Excuse me,” he gets up.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Yeosang?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m done eating. Bye.” <em>He isn’t,</em> the wrapped sandwich in the brown pouch on the table would protest, but he doesn’t care. He lacks the appetite to eat, instead choosing to pull his bag off the ground and marching off to the infirmary (a regular spot for him now, it appeared).</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Why doesn’t Wooyoung get it?</em> He wonders. <em>How is he so dense, so stupid? How am I so stupid?</em> His brain adds. Obviously, it wouldn’t mean as much to Wooyoung as it did to him. After San entered the picture, nothing else really seemed to matter to Wooyoung. Maybe he was overthinking it; he wasn’t sure. He slides the door open after turning the spare key Seonghwa had given him in the lock, dropping down on one of the beds. Seonghwa was probably out with Mr Kim (the new TA with hair as vibrant as a blueberry) on their lunch break together. He’d get the space all to himself for at least half an hour. Maybe more, if he could convince Seonghwa to give him a pink slip.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">His phone vibrates, a notification from Wooyoung on his lock screen, staring back at him alongside a selfie they’d taken together during a movie night. A special movie night. He still remembers it as if it were yesterday, even if it had been a few years back.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">It was the 3rd of December, much too early for them to start pulling tinsels out of boxes or breaking small branches off their neighbour’s mistletoe plant, but Wooyoung had insisted that winter marked the need for Christmas spirit to begin. Who was he to deny the puppy dog eyes widened at him as a plea? It had been quite late into the day when the first traces of snow fell, however as they were wide awake anyway, halfway through Coraline on their shared Netflix account. <em>“Come on, old man!” </em>Wooyoung had laughed, pulling Yeosang up the attic to look through their old Christmas decorations as he grumbled in protest. Wooyoung’s already going through a chest of fragile pieces as he sinks beside the boy, resting his head on the other’s shoulder. <em>“You’re not going to help me, are you?”</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“No,” </em>he’d chuckled, opting to close his eyes and pretend to sleep.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“Come on, Sangie, look at this! It’s our special decoration.” </em>At that, he lifts an eyelid to see the ornament Wooyoung dangles in front of his eyes. It’s a glass ornament. Two, to be exact. A pair made just for each other (they were one of a kind since his mother had custom made them way back when she was interested in the craft. Now she called it too much work). Two angels holding each other’s hands. The set was detachable, but they’d opted for the two to stay together, linking the chains. It was a known tradition that they’d alternate years in terms of location, one Christmas Wooyoung would come over, the next Yeosang would be at the Jung’s house hanging the angels on a bramble together. Yeosang’s angel had a small crack on it’s chest due to a fall it had taken after Wooyoung decided it was a good idea to parade both around the garden. Looking back at the memory, it felt like a foreshadowing of events.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“Yours,” </em>Wooyoung gestures to the blonde one, then to the one with black hair <em>“and mine.” </em>He’d looked down into Yeosang’s face, illuminated by the warm yellow flickering streetlamp outside the round attic window, and smiled. <em>“Keep that sweater, Sangie.”</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Are you sure? I know it’s one of your favourites, Woo.”</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“It looks better on you than it does on me. Keep it.</em><em>”</em> He pauses, placing the angels back into the chest, raising a hand to Yeosang’s face. <em>“Can I kiss you, Yeosang?” </em>To say he was shocked was an understatement. But he’d wanted his best friend to take his first kiss for as long as he could remember. He nodded, not trusting his brain to form the words he’d like. And <em>oh</em>. Wooyoung’s lips were soft, so much sweeter than he’d imagined. It was chaste, as the two boys had never done such a thing with anyone else. He was Wooyoung’s first, and Wooyoung his first. <em>“Well, that was strange,” </em>Woooyung had giggled, pulling Yeosang into an embrace.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Strange?”</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Never thought I’d ever get to kiss you, I mean. I don’t even know how to kiss.”</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“We can learn.” </em>Wooyoung’s laughter was brighter than any skies he’d ever seen as soon as the words left Yeosang’s lips.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“Learn? Ah, Sangie. You’re so cute; I can hardly take it.” </em>More kisses were peppered to his face, before Wooyoung had lifted him to his feet, sneaking out together to grab whatever hung on the coat hanger through the back door. They never spoke again about that day. Even after Wooyoung had come out to him, introducing himself as a <em>“proud gay.” </em>Yeosang admitted to feeling less than heterosexual tendencies as well, and they’d continued to talk about it over the sounds coming from his laptop- <em>‘Kill Your Darlings’: </em>a movie they had been trying to watch for ages.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Only if Wooyoung knew how much he had liked him. But he'd seen how Wooyoung lit up at the sight of San after the boy moved in, all soft locks and pretty dimples. San was a sight for sore eyes, so happy, so cheerful, so full of life and energy. Where Yeosang was cinnamon and hot peppers, San was sugar and vanilla. Wooyoung had been mesmerised and starstruck as the other made his way into the vacant seat on his right, where Yeosang had been on his left. Ironic. San was literally <em>right</em>. Right for his best friend. The sweater looked right on him too. Even if he and Wooyoung had spent hours, days, ages, hunting for that sweater around town just so that they'd be able to match. And as their seating positions had suggested, Yeosang had been somewhat left behind. One too many steps behind as the cold sank in, watching as San would huddle up into the warmth of Wooyoung, a position he had once grown used to being a part of.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">He wishes he could hate San. It would be a lot easier to be mean if he hated San, but San was, in all truthfulness, and angel. He was every bit as lovely as he looked. He’d give no second thoughts to offering anyone who seemed remotely hungry his food, and was never short of change to place into the hands of beggars. Hell, he was a volunteer at the local nursing home <em>and </em>at least two other pet shelters. But then again, Yeosang kind of wished he were dead. Dead people were a lot easier to deal with than those who are alive, <em>way</em> too many unexpected responses.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Would Wooyoung think of him as pathetic now?</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Yeosang?” Seonghwa pokes his head through the door. “Shouldn’t you be home by now?” <em>Oh shit, hyung’s right</em>. “You don’t need a pink slip today. Your parents have already written in. Go, and make sure you keep in touch.” The older male wraps him in a hug. Yeosang allows himself to fall into that feeling of being cared for.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Bye, hyung.” He waves as he shuts the sliding door, making his way through the empty hallways. At this hour, all students were meant to be back in respective classes. Of course, Yeosang had been excused early. <em>Just this once. </em>He pulls his purple penny board out and lets the breeze flit by as he goes downhill, turning at corners to get to his house. Most of the boxes had been loaded onto the truck, his mother still fussing about the last few, ensuring nothing would be left behind.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“My baby!” She yells ever so slightly, a bright look on her face. He knew she was happy. Knew his dad was happy too. They’d both deserved this promotion. It was a guilt that ate at him, why couldn’t he be happy as well? His phone buzzed again. <em>Where are you? </em>He sees a text from Wooyoung. <em>I’m going to San’s place later; you want to come? </em>He leaves the other on seen. It’s easier to say nothing at all than to say something that means nothing anyway. In a way, he’s glad San is bringing Wooyoung back to his house so he won’t have to say goodbye.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“I hate goodbyes,” </em>Wooyoung had once said to him. <em>“It’s like saying we’ll never see each other again. I’d much rather say ‘see you later’, or ‘see you soon’, you catch my drift?”</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Please don’t ever use ‘catch my drift’ in a sentence. Ever.”</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Whatever you say, Sangie.”</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“How was your day, dear?” His mom tosses him a wrapped burrito from a tray out in the front yard. There’s a jug with lemonade too, but she obviously can’t throw him that (she <em>has, </em>but that was when she’d come back at 4 in the morning one time and had been too tired even to remember that her shoes shouldn’t make it past the front door).</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Same old, mom. Did you make these?” She shakes her head.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Your dad did. Now hurry up, I haven’t touched the boxes in your room; they need to be brought down.” He sets the burrito on the table by the porch, deciding he’ll eat it in the journey later before hopping up the stairs. Their new home will be an apartment, apparently, so he’s got to say goodbye to the attic. They’d decided to leave the old Christmas ornaments for the new owner, so Yeosang doesn’t bother checking through the antique wooden chest as he goes back down the ladder into his room.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">The rest of the moving boxes process goes straightforwardly. He’s on his final box, and the clock rolls to 6 before he sees a glimpse of curly black hair making its way through the workers carrying furniture through the entrance. Wooyoung locks eyes with him through his bedroom window, questions flowing from his gaze. Yeosang will not answer any. There’s no point. Wooyoung stands by the main door, watching as Yeosang walks past in silence.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Sangie-“ Wooyoung starts, reaching out for his arm. Yeosang doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t stop Wooyoung from trailing after him like a wounded animal.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Oh, so <em>now </em>it’s ‘Sangie’, yeah? What happened to ‘Yeosang’?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“You didn’t tell me you were moving, Sangie, what the hell?” His voice rises in volume in a hiss. There’s an underlying tone of what, sadness? Disappointment? Betrayal? <em>Please, it was about damn time.</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“You would have noticed if you weren’t so busy with San.” He bites back. Their family had been planning this move for a month. Anyone who came to visit would have seen the steady pile of packing. But that’s precisely where the problem goes; <em>anyone who came to visit</em>. Wooyoung hadn’t been one of them, much too occupied with his boyfriend to see, to question the disappearance of the garden tables or the lounge chairs. Wooyoung’s mouth gapes open in shock. He shakes his head furiously, grabbing hold of Yeosang’s body to throw him over his shoulder as he walked into the backyard shed against the protests of the blonde boy. “What the <em>fuck, </em>Wooyoung?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Shut up.” He grits, setting him down inside, propping his body against the door to stop the other male from escaping. “Were you ever going to tell me?” His voice softens slightly, a tad bit of shakiness lacing the words.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“I wasn’t planning on it. Thought you wouldn’t notice anyhow. Does it even matter?” Yeosang’s tone is cold. Once upon a time, he would have cried at this moment. Not now. Not after an entire year of being treated like a phantom who wafted around with minimal purpose. There is an emptiness within that will not permit his tears to fall, instead choosing to lock them up. Wooyoung, however, leans in, embracing Yeosang the same way he would have in the past. “You’re making my sweater wet.” He simply says, neither responding nor rejecting the show of affection.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Why, Sangie?” He whispers, voice hoarse. “Why can’t you understand how upset I am right now?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Why?” He scoffs. “You. You did this to me, Wooyoung. You-“ He goes silent against the press of lips on his. <em>Soft</em>. Wooyoung cups his face, warm tears streaming down.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Yeosang! It’s time to go!” He hears his mother call.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">He ignores it. “Why would you ever kiss me? I’m not even half as pretty. You gave him your sweater too. And it’s just polyester, but you like him better. I wish I were San, but I’m not. Goodbye, Wooyoung. I don’t think I’ll miss you, even if I do- or did- love you. I hope San manages to fill whatever is left of me that remains here. You had no trouble leaving me out of your life then, and you’ll have no trouble now.” He pushes past the shaking male, who’s still visibly crying. A small voice in Yeosang tells him he should feel guilty, but it’s quickly stomped on by other thoughts.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Sangie!”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">He doesn’t turn around in the car to look at Wooyoung through the backseat. He knows that the other male is chasing the car, his voice getting progressively quieter.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Sangie!”</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">He grips the tiny porcelain angel. Wooyoung’s porcelain angel strung around his neck. A single tear falls while music plays from his iPod.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“You okay, son?” His father asks from the driver’s seat.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m okay, dad.” A notification pops up.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">Wooyoung sent him an image.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>I found the angel you left me. Goodbye, Sangie. I love you.</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">He glances at the small screen in his lap. Gerard Way responds to the text on his behalf, and he sings along quietly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <strong> <em>”I don't love you</em> </strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <strong> <em>Like I did</em> </strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <strong> <em>Yesterday.”</em> </strong>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a sequel may be in place if people request it</p></blockquote></div></div>
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